Coping
by thedoctorandriver
Summary: When two people are properly broken, the rest of the universe doesn't stop; planets carry on spinning, and stars turn to dust as time has its way and moves on - because no matter how fast they run, loss runs faster. A series exploring how the two try to cope when running doesn't work.
1. Chapter 1

AU In which neither side ever really recovers from that infamous moment at the end of series 2.

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, or anything that is recognisable.

_I just wanna be ok, be ok, be ok,_

_I just wanna be ok today. _

_I just wanna feel today, feel today, feel today,_

_I just wanna feel something today. _

_Open me up and you will see_

_I'm a gallery of broken hearts_

_I'm beyond repair let me be_

_And give me back my broken parts._

Ingrid Michaelson, Be OK.

* * *

Not all stories have happy endings.

* * *

_Afterwards; approximately six decades and twenty companions._

Later, he steps outside and looks up at the sky, eyes distant. He is on an unnamed planet - he vaguely remembers it from days long gone, but it doesn't particularly matter anymore - his past has begun to blur, leaving a certain period painfully clear. Sometimes, when he is feeling happier, he mirthlessly calls this "the Universe's gift to him". But his mood is always cut short as soon as his mind processes further, which happens awfully fast with his advanced thinking. Any mention of universes is bound to lead his thoughts to a familiar destination, involving the words "parallel" and " sealed".

He allows himself to properly _look _at the sky, instead of the aimless staring that has been happening for the past minutes - or was it hours? - for a Lord of Time, he has been quite bad at keeping track of it recently. Jagged cliffs stretch up towards the stars. The stars, which stayed beautiful, even when all the beauty in his life was ripped away in the matter of a few seconds. It's hardly fair, but nothing ever is. He knew from the very beginning that it wouldn't last forever, but now it is all too soon and he feels like he is drowning in a world that seems so suddenly large now that he has no one to face it with him.

He sinks to the ground, letting his precious trench coat sweep up the dirt. He has too much to escape from, and nowhere to escape to. After all, his memories follow him everywhere he goes. A flash of blonde hair, the echo of an infectious smile - he has long since decided the Universe has taken it upon itself to torture him whenever possible.

He wonders how, and if, he will ever be alright again. Because now he has had a taste of pure, unadulterated joy, how will anything ever compare? Once again, he feels terribly alone, the emptiness in his hearts having no distractions to fill it with. Of course there have been companions. Some simply wanting to see the stars, and using the perfect opportunity they are given when he tries to find something to divert him from his disasterous course.  
Some who truthfully wanted to help him, though why they thought they could achieve that he'll never know. The short period just after _it _happened had been a blur of barely legal interplanetary bars, numbing alcohol, drunken nights and skin on skin. He remembers it taking his first companion quite a while to pull him out of _that_ routine.  
Then there are the others - people coming to him to escape their own lives which are starting to seem so unimportant to him. Those are usually the ones who leave first, saying they can't stand his blank face, that his expression scares them. That they don't want to continue travelling if it makes people end up in the state that he is and will be in for the foreseeable future. He can never be bothered to explain. He just hopes that one day the pain will feel less, that he will wake up and be able to look out of the TARDIS doors without feeling his hearts collapse all over again.

One day, he tells himself, one day. In the meantime he keeps on moving, because surely if he runs _hard _enough, _fast_ enough, _far_ enough, his past won't catch up with him. He knows there is an inevitable moment coming when everything will fall down upon him, but it wouldn't be today, and he was just going to focus on that. He was taking it day by day, repeating the words "just keep moving" in his mind as the only thing he had left to hold onto.

He had ridden the crest of the wave too long, and now he had crashed with it as it reached the shore, leaving him stuck in the endless shallows that had become his new life. _But it was a good wave_, he tells himself. _The best._

He slumps forward, feeling a sudden anger fill him _- why could he not just move on? Why was this having such an effect on him? His people would have been ashamed. He was not worthy to be a Time Lord.  
That's true, _another voice in his head says_, but not because of her. She was the best thing that ever happened to you. She was too good. You did not deserve her, yet now you selfishly believe that she would have chosen you too. She will be moving on, wherever she is, you know she will. They all do, they all forget you in the end._

With a silent snarl, he forcibly pushes these aspects of his personality back deep inside, where he cannot hear their quarrels. This was why he needed distractions; he lived for them. If his mind was left for it's own devices he would slowly go insane. Sometimes, he wonders if the past companions he has had were real, or just figments of his imagination. Was she even real? It suddenly seems so long ago that he saw her. Was she just a creation his mind boiled up, only that to take it away again as if the War wasn't torment enough? She was real, he tells himself - over and over again, because now he is questioning his own judgement.

He looks at the sky again, straightening his aching back. It is then that he remembers that they were once here together, though on the other side of the planet, far towards his left. He thinks that is why he feels such a slight connection with it.

He starts mapping out the stars, naming them and sorting them into compelx categories in his head. When he runs out, he begins to count, slowing down his personal time so that the milliseconds are easier to keep track of.  
Mildly, it occurrs to him that he has never told any human of this ability. Inwardly he shrugs; it may have been that it wasn't possible then. So many things have become possible since then - at least he thinks so; it's so hard to keep track when the one thing he really wants remains stoic. And even if he crossed now - her grave was not what he wanted to see. Even worse, if she was still alive, with a husband, kids. He knows he is selfish, but then again, selfishness is such a human concept.

897 239 472 375, 836 967.514298 seconds later the door locks behind him, and the TARDIS prepares for yet another destination.

On a level, the TARDIS understands that if the Doctor ever stopped running, neither of them would be better off; no matter how much she wants to help him face up to the truth.

* * *

_Present: 2006, August._

A girl is left standing on a beach that a man in another universe has cursed countless times already. For her, however, the pain is still fresh, and every step she takes rubs against her, razor sharp, and infinitely more excruciating.

Her family open their mouths, anxious words filling the air but none reaching her. She opens her mouth to try and tell them, explain how her heart has been cruelly ripped into two, but her throat stocks, and she feels useless.  
Although she can distinctly feel a touch there as she is led towards the jeep, her hand has never felt more empty.

In the end they decide to stay near the beach, buying a small cottage overlooking the sea. Her blank face does most of the convincing.  
The last shred of hope she has left has attached itself to the sand where she had stood, watching a figure fade, and she didn't know what would happen if that too was wrenched away from her.

Surprisingly enough, the beach becomes her comfort - she often spends hours sitting on the wet sand, listening to the steady sound of the waves rushing in and out. She is waiting for a change in the pattern she knows will never come, for someone to come and stop the sound driving her insane.

She knows that many people have has their heart broken, but she cannot imagine anyone's being left in the state hers is - mangled, already faltering in its weak beat. How she longs for another pair to come and join her single one, making it whole again. Sometimes she hears the four beat pattern at night, in the kind of dreams that leave her waking up tangled up in her sheets, pillow stained with salt. Her mother has almost given up on washing her bedclothes.

Her family worries, of course, when she doesn't divert from her pattern of eating, sleeping and staring at the ocean in all weathers. She gets a job, at the local supermarket's - aware that it is not exactly the emblem of the "fantastic life" she was told to have but not really caring. She wouldn't be surprised if her fellow workers didn't know she existed - in the last few months she has become very good at fading into the background.

_Afterwards; the End_

Eventually, she is forced to accept that her story does not have a happy ending, and that no prince is going to come and rescue her. Her life isn't a fairy tale. She can't move on though, because a chunk of her heart is missing, and even when she tries, all she feels is an empty space. She likes to believe that the missing piece is up there somewhere, far away from her grounded body, wild and free with its counterpart. There has been no moment when she has hated the earth as much as she does now.

Inwardly, she knows that one day she will wake up and find that the hole in her chest has shrunk. The human mind is equipped to deal with loss in many ways, but if none of them work, it will always resort to the memory. And though she tries to replay her time with him so often before she goes to sleep, it has already become blurry around the edges, and a part of her is relieved. She hopes that he, wherever he is, is OK, but she knows it won't be the case; at least not yet. He always did find some way to blame himself for every single working of the universe.

Her subconscious promises itself that it will force her to get a better job when the time is right, but for now it keeps silent.

When two people get properly broken, the universe doesn't stop. There is no flash of light, no crash of drums. The earth continues its course and the planets carry on spinning. People live, and people die, in a cycle that repeats over and over again, simply missing out two that were previously destined to become a part of it.

Not all stories have happy endings. But very few stories have even a fraction of the happiness that the story of the Doctor and Rose had. And in the end, it was worth the heart break.

* * *

_A/N Please review and tell me what you think - or if you have any specific ideas for the next parts - Rose's timeline will go mainly forwards from Doomsday onwards, while the Doctor's will skip past concepts such as things being chronological, as he does._

_ Love to all my followers and alerters who have stuck by me over my period of writer's block! Also, keep watching I am currently writing a long awaited epilogue and perhaps a prologue to my story, Shattered.  
Once again, please review if you liked it, or if you didn't!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Warning: One swear word, in case anyone is picky - I don't think it is enough to merit an M!_

* * *

_The Heart, once broken, is a fragile thing._

_Afterwards; 2006, September_

The numbers of beach visits have decreased this month – only by a few, but it seems significant.

It isn't because she's moving on quite yet – no, certainly not, she tells herself, and is not sure whether to feel relieved or appalled that this occurred to her. It's because slowly, life has begun to seep in through the cracks that splinter through her. It starts with little things; last week she went out and bought some new hair accessories, and when she wore that first hairclip, her family's eyes nearly boggled out of their heads but they kept silent, happier now. Rose can't help but feel irrationally angry at them for this, and it annoys her because she can't explain why. She puts it down to the fact that now they are giving her more attention than before, and she doesn't like the fact that she had to take the first step. Pondering over this, she realises it's all because she_ took_ _a_ step. She feels like she is betraying that unspoken promise of mourning she made that day on the beach. Then she chastises herself for the absurdity of having all of these thoughts over a new hairclip and she stops, resolving to visit the beach at once, a part of her needing to know that it was still there, that it was still real when everything else was changing so quickly, out of her control.

She stays there, sitting in the sand, and watches the shadows that the cliffs cast over the beach. The darkest part of the shadow, just where the rocks meet the sand, is at first glance impossibly black. The darkness remains stoic and unrevealing; no matter how hard she stares at it. In the days before, she might have pointed it out, and then _he_ would have gone up to it with that silly little machine of his, and they would have saved the world from yet another complex scheme. Looking back, she sometimes wonders if he really uncovered events like these, or somehow took them with him wherever he went. It is starting to seem as if everything otherworldly only existed when he was around, and at all other times the world is a mightily ordinary place, the only life in the universe. However, she doesn't like the path this road of thinking takes her along, as it always ends up with her questioning her sanity.

She goes inside and lights a torch at the cliff. All she can see is grey rock, a small tendril of moss growing along a crack. She puts her palm flat on the stone and breathes in, closing her eyes.

A few minutes pass, and her eyes snap open again, still focused on the cliff. It hasn't changed. A sigh escapes her and she trudges back inside the house. No one in the sitting room questions the oversized torch in her hand, or the wet stains on her knees. Everything has sunk back into its usual pattern.

The next day at work, she wears almost all her bright hair accessories at the same time to see if it feels different.  
She doesn't come to a conclusion, and it's because she's scared of what the answer will mean.

* * *

_Afterwards; Approximately three years and two relatively short term companions (such that he will probably forget about within a few months)_

He has never resorted to such mundane measures of forgetting things before, but as he sits on the indefinitely unhygienic wooden bench in the crowded bar, he can sympathise with the "drowning of sorrows". The feeling of his head becoming gradually less weighed down with the infinite workings of his mind is a pleasant one, although he has to drink far more than the others there, a result of his advanced metabolism.

He studies the froth in the cup before him, watching the bubbles as they travel around the edges. Soon another is placed before him, and he feels slightly surprised, as he can't quite remember finishing the previous one, but this is lost on him as he successfully loses himself in a whirl of alcohol and empty stares.

"You look down, mate," A voice somewhere to his left says. He looks up to see a vague face swimming in his peripheral vision.

He shrugs non-committedly. He doesn't particularly care what this inconsequential human has to say to him at this point in time.

"We all get it," the voice continues, and the bench next to him creaks as weight is put on it. He growls inwardly. He doesn't want company, not right now, or he wouldn't have come to here of all places.

"Hmm," he says, trying to show the voice that he is not interested in wherever this conversation is leading, but the alcohol has had a numbing effect on his body and he can't tell if his body language is responding the way he wants it to.

"It's girl trouble, isn't it? I recognise so many people in you," the voice says, a small chuckle emerging.

He doesn't answer, concluding that he has contributed enough.

"Fancy a round of cards?" the voice says now, and he is relieved that it had an ulterior motive. Before he can answer, the pair of hands which he assumes belongs to this disembodied voice spreads out a pack on the table. Even in this drunken state, he can tell that the cards are set up – the voice is obviously out to get some money off some poor unsuspecting victim.

"No," he says, struggling to keep his voice level. Another beer is put down in front of him, and he downs it, despite of his previous statement.

"C'mon, mate, I'll let you have ten pounds in advance," the voice says, annoyingly insistent.

His patience finally snaps, and he speaks out. "They're fake cards," he says, the words coming out louder than expected, and he can feel half the inhabitants of the room turning to look at him, though he still stares steadily into his cup.

He notices that a scuffle has now started up, and by the murmurings he can tell it's about to escalate into a full on fight. He knows that he probably had something to do with it, but he doesn't move from his seat. It is only when the blows start gravitating towards him, and he hears the voice shout, "You! You fucking little bugger!" that he abruptly stands up, upending the table, and moves to leave.

"Where d'ya think you're going? You got me into this mess!" the voice says, struggling to avoid the punches others are raining down upon it; no doubt victims of previous escapades using the trick cards.

It is only when the voice manages to throw a beer tankard at his back, a stain spreading over his coat, that he turns around, and launches himself into the middle of the fight with gusto. He lets himself disappear into a mess of knuckles and feet, aware of people around the edges trying to break up the brawl, but the sensation of working out all the pent up anger inside him feels to good and he ends up being thrown out into the street. He doesn't get up from the ground until a passer-by catches his attention.

She is walking quickly, trying to keep her face hidden with a flimsy scarf, but he recognises her as Shareen, a friend of Rose's that he has never met in person, but remembers spying on her from the TARDIS back in his ninth regeneration when Rose went to visit her. He remembers feeling slightly guilty afterwards, but justifying it as just checking Rose was safe.

Shareen sparks his interest and he lifts himself from the ground, silently starting to follow her. Soon he realises he is not the only one doing this, as another figure has been only a few steps behind her for quite a while now. Once glance at the figure's face tells him that it doesn't have god intentions in mind. He quickly catches up with it, and before it has time to react, knocks it unconscious with a quiet jab to the central nervous system. It would be found the next morning by some police officer, and no doubt put in prison – this wouldn't be the first time it has tried to offend the law.

Shareen turns around as she hears the body drop to the ground, but he is already gone, and she starts running as she sees the figure lying there – she doesn't want to have to be there when someone comes and finds it.

* * *

_Afterwards; 2006, October_

It is properly Autumn now, and the trees that line the roads leading to the beach are shedding their leaves quickly, branches becoming bare as the bright colours bleed on the ground, piles building on the roadsides.

She still works in the supermarket, but she has been promoted to manager now. A small part of her is not satisfied, and every day the idea of finding Torchwood and working there like Pete becomes more solid. She wouldn't have to move away from the beach – in this universe Norway is a part of the British Empire, which somehow failed to dissolve properly – and Torchwood was moved a few miles along the coast, all Pete's doing as he didn't want to force her to move back to the old headquarters in London. She is still afraid of mentioning this to her family, as it would be a clear sign of her moving on, and if it didn't work and she sunk back into her almost catatonic state she couldn't bear the looks of disappointment that would accumulate around her.

Thoughts continue assaulting her head until she suddenly feels very dizzy and is trapped, trapped between the painful memories of the past and the terrifying prospect of the future, and she feels so very young, wondering for the first time if _he_ saw her the way she is now. Did he ever think she was childish? She had been so terribly innocent then. Her present state is inching either forward or backward, as the careful equilibrium she has been living in is unbalancing. She isn't sure which direction is better, but she's sure that one will happen, and however much it pains her to think this, inwardly she is almost definite it will be forward. _The human mind forgets_, he had always reminded her, when they had met someone with a particularly terrible loss.

The cliff face is still the same as that day, weeks ago, when she had dragged out her torch in the middle of the day; identical even to the day when she got into the whole mess. All at once her heart aches again, and she slumps down where she is, on the floor of her bedroom and lets herself cry of her own will for the first time since they parted.

When she has cried that part of herself out, she is surprised to find that she feels better.

* * *

_Afterwards; Approximately six years, no new companions_

He spends the next few years in an embarrassing blur of alcohol and intergalactic bars, building up a reputation Jack would have been proud of. He knows that what he is doing is not respectful to _her_ memory at all, but he doesn't know what else he can do. There is a huge gap in his hearts, and he is desperately trying to fill them with the only thing that takes his mind off her halfway effectively.

He has just stumbled out of yet another house after finding himself waking up in an stranger's bed, which is familiar. He wanders around the planet for a few hours, trying to get over the pounding pain in his head for long enough to remember where he parked the TARDIS – he has found that one unfortunate side effect from his so called "sorrow drowning" is the fact that it momentarily diminishes his connection with his ship. Mostly this is a good thing, but he can distinctly remember taking part in various illegal activities last night, and he is quite sure that the officials saw his face. He wants nothing more than to get off of this planet immediately. When his head still hasn't stopped pounding an hour later, he admits defeat and sits down on the nearest bench available, waiting for the pain to stop.

"Are you looking for that blue box of yours?" someone asks.

He looks up, and recognises this one from however many nights back, a slight red tinge flooding his face as he remembers how he left without a word, early in the morning. "How did-"

He is cut off by a hefty slap to the cheek, leaving his head ringing. He concludes he probably deserves that. "I followed you afterwards – you looked like you were about to pass out," the person says, and upon closer inspection he realises it is a female – he doesn't usually stay long enough to remember details like this – with a very angry expression, red hair flaming.

"I'm sorry," he says tonelessly, not meaning it – why should he be held accountable for the things he does when he was under the influence? Even as he thinks this he knows _she_ wouldn't have approved, but then again if she knew about the rampage he has been on these past few years she would have left him anyway. Still, he tries again, struggling to put more meaning into his words. "I am sorry,"

The redhead snorts. "Sure you are. Now anyway, about that box of yours – I saw it behind the rubbish bins in the Clifford Estate,"

The name strikes a bell in his head, and he is surprised – it's been a while since he was on earth. He gets up to leave, when a tight grip on his arm stops him.

"What do you say?" the woman says, her voice dangerously irritated.

He looks at her blankly for a few moments before realising. "Thanks," he says, gruffly.

"Good," the woman purses her lips. "And that's thanks Donna to you!" she calls after him.

It is only when he is already light years away that he realises that her timeline would cross with his again. He doesn't go back to find her though – he knows that Time would organise this on its own. He doesn't especially want to get attached to anyone again anyway, even if it is only as a friend, since right now the concept of a solid person next to him seemed alien, and he had seen a very abrupt stop in her part of their timeline – no doubt it would have something to do with him.

* * *

_A/N Donna appears as a cameo!  
A special thanks to ValaEnVash, and all the others who reviewed without logging in. :)  
Next update will hopefully be soon again, but it will probably take longer than this time when I had both chapters already written.  
I hope you all liked this part – please review again and tell me what you thought – whether you liked it or not, it's all cool with me. Any prompts or ideas are welcome.  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_Afterwards; December 2006_

The winter is hard.  
The bare trees cling on to her as she walks past, their branches curled and crooked, reaching out to grab her. It's silly, she knows, and she's not really scared of them – she's faced worse before, hasn't she? Somehow the muted atmosphere weighs on her, sticking with her wherever she goes. It hasn't snowed yet, so everything is still grey and drab. At night the cold sinks into her room in freezing tendrils that invade her blankets, but she hasn't told Jackie – she doesn't want to make a fuss, as they are worried enough about her already. This doesn't make much sense, and she can see that, but she needs to feel some shred of independence right now, and if it takes an ice cold room to do that, so be it.  
She goes up to the small town further inland, taking the cliff route as she does so. A tiny smile spreads across her face, although she doesn't realise it's happening, when she remembers Jackie's renewed ranting about the fact that the beach is so far away from civilisation. She doesn't really mind – she likes the peace and quiet. The way you can go outside and hear nothing except the rush of the sea and seagulls crying in the distance as they circle the rocks gives everything a surreal atmosphere which she has come to appreciate. She thinks Jackie actually likes the beach as well, but won't admit it because stubbornness is in her nature.

She steps off the winding path, towards the edges of the cliffs. Today it is windy, and the sea is swirling in unrest, grey murky water slapping against the rock every time a wave moves inland. Her feet clamber across the rocks that lead to the edge easily – she has done this before. She gets to the raised slab of stone a few metres from the drop, where she likes to sit occasionally.

Today however, she doesn't stop there – she carries on going just a little bit further. She's not being completely reckless; she's planned this route out before many times, just not had the courage to do it yet. One foot in the small crevasse to her right, and the other wedged into the gap between the two rocks, and then she's made it. Carefully, she lowers herself down, her bottom resting slightly uncomfortably, and her feet stretched out towards the sea until the tips of her toes are poking out over the drop. From here it's an amazing view. It's better than all the tourist filled spots later on, all cordoned off on either sides and littered with the wrappers of the energy bars the café at the bottom of the cliffs sells. Here, she is a part of the rocks themselves, and it gives her a lovely timeworn feeling. She thinks it's the closest she will get to how _he_ felt.

A blur of white sails down and impacts with the water, and she finds herself watching a seabird re-emerge from the water, fish in its mouth. It is too far away to tell what species the bird is, and she wouldn't know anyway, but she decides to go and buy a book on coastal birds later – she wants to do something productive, because she feels so useless since he left, and she thinks it was because he was the only person who made her feel better than the rest, who made her feel like she was worth something, because she has never felt remotely like that since. Now she was just herself again, an uneducated shop girl. A small surge of anger was lighting within her now, and again she wasn't sure who it was supposed to be directed at, but since she was, as usual, alone, it descends on her instead. She leans back, ignoring the sharp corners digging into her back and tries to shut out the _voices_ in her head telling her that she is _worthless,_ and _pointless_ and that the world would be _better off without her_ and-

And then she is aware of a rumbling starting at her feet and she hears something _crumble_ and suddenly her feet are dangling in space, and she feels herself slipping forward, her hands scrabbling at the rocks, grazing her hands, as she desperately tries to hold on.  
It seems like hours later when she finally manages to get a secure hold on the stone, her hands and legs bruised, fingernails torn. She carefully drags herself backwards, away from the drop, trying to ignore the voice saying that she should have let herself fall.

When she is back on the path and looks at the sky, she is surprised to find the sky already turning dark – she wasn't aware of time passing before, but this is common for her, so she turns and runs back down the slope, pretending that _someone_ is holding her hand and that _something_ is chasing her, and within a matter of minutes she is back at the house.

Jackie looks at her suspiciously when she enters, torn jeans and all. "I thought you were going up to town, bloody far away it is and all," Jackie says, pursing her lips.

"I got waylaid," she says, sound slipping from her lips automatically.

"Hmm," Jackie looks quizzical, but says nothing, an unspoken agreement passing between them, like so many years ago when they were still in the flat, and Rose was so young, watching the many different boyfriends come in and out of her mother's room, each one of them a poor substitute for Pete, who was still dead in the other world, something which weighed heavily on her consciousness every time she looked at the "new" Pete.

Jackie beckons, a box of old, colourful plasters appearing in her mother's hands, and she moves forward and sits on her mother's lap, Jackie carefully spreading the colourful bands on her various cuts and abrasions. She feels like she is little again, and she wishes she was, she wishes she could go back and do her life again, and do it right, and never meet Jimmy Stone, and finish school, and then maybe she wouldn't be separated from _him_ in the first place.

"Finished," Jackie pronounces, giving Rose a big hug, and then gently pushing her up the stairs, telling her she needs to get some rest as she looks like she hasn't slept properly in weeks, which is true, but Jackie doesn't need to know that.

She lies on her bed, facing the ceiling, which Jackie and Pete had covered in pink, glow-in-the-dark stars in an attempt to recreate her old room back home, and closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, she sees soft snowflakes falling outside her window, and she buries herself in memories, and for once, the hole in her chest feels soothed, as if the snowflakes are reaching it too. She wonders if it is snowing in the other world, and she imagines him watching the same snowflakes fall, leaving their snow white trace on everything they touched. She is sure some incarnation of him is seeing them somewhere, and she hopes that he is remembering her right now. The thought makes her feel better, and she closes her eyes again, letting sleep take her.

That night she has best night's sleep in almost half a year.

* * *

_Afterwards; Approximately 6 years and five months_

The next time he sees Donna, he has just wearily saved earth from some conquering species whose name he has forgotten already – what's the use of spouting clever words when there is no one there to hear them?  
He is walking along a road, a normal, would-be inconsequential road if Donna didn't live there. One minute he is staring at the end of the street, which seems so far away now he has lost his incentive to run – and then he is enveloped in a hug, that smells of cheap perfume and is just so wrong, not at all like _her_, and then he feels a stinging pain on his cheek, and he knows who the owner of the perfume is.

"Hey, Spaceboy!" Donna says, her voice loud and cheery, and frankly hurting his eardrums. "OI!" she complains, and he realises he has said the last part out loud.

He shrugs at her. He isn't really in the mood for anything except his usual solitary being right now because he has realised that he has been relatively near here before, and it was with her. He can still remember the location of the chip shop, and the way he would playfully steal her food, right from under her nose, and when she'd notice she'd make him give her some of his, and he'd pop them in her mouth, exactly what he'd been trying to achieve all along. He wonders if she knew that was the main thing he enjoyed about those outings, and his mind tells him no, she didn't, and he is lost in a train of thoughts spiralling downwards, and can tell he is about to break down again, so he moves to try and get past the human blocking his path-

"Stop moping, spaceboy," Donna says sharply, although a hint of softness is in her tone, and it touches him. Then something else registers with him, and suddenly it all makes sense, but it angers him, because meeting out of the order of people's time streams becomes so stressful, and always ends badly.

"How long have you known me?" he asks, and the lack of enthusiasm in his tone would be enough to scare anyone but her off.

"What do you mean 'how long have I known you'? Do you think I'd bloody forget stuff like that? Or are you implying I'm old-" Donna's voice is reaching an annoying crescendo and his ears are protesting so her simply interrupts her.

"This is only the second time I've met you," he states.

Donna's eyes widen in realisation, and an annoyed look plasters itself over her face. "Could have given me some warning, spaceboy," she says, tutting.

He doesn't reply. Instead he waves her a lustless goodbye and carries on along the road, in the other direction this time. He hears her shout something after him, and by the rude tone of it, he decides it's good he didn't understand. When he gets back to the Tardis, he lets her float in the vortex for a bit, letting her presence sooth the ragged holes _she_ left behind. He has somewhat regained his sanity, if he can call it that – he has stopped touring the universe's bars for petty comfort.

The blue jacket hung across one of the coral beams catches his eye, and it's not for the first time – despite who it reminds him of, he hasn't had the heart to move it yet – he lets a small part of him believe that any minute now the owner will come running through the doors, and give him a bright smile.

* * *

_Afterwards; January 2007_

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Jackie asks, concerned, and it annoys her because she wanted them to be happy that she is doing this.

"Yes," she snaps, and comes out harsher than she wants it to.

"All right, I was just asking," Jackie says, holding her hands up in surrender.

She gives her mother a quick hug, before leaving the house. Her Torchwood badge is glinting as it catches the spring sunlight, but she doesn't pay it any attention. She settles into a brisk jog, heading for the base. She has been made the assistant deputy of the foreign artefacts department – she was offered a higher rank, on a field job, but she didn't accept. She half regrets it, but she knows that she is by far the most knowledgeable person there, regarding aliens, so if she really wants the job, it will be easy for her to get it. Besides, her team is used to her occasionally breaking down when she recognises something that has painful repercussions, and it doesn't matter in the safety of their room. That happening in the middle of an assignment in the field, and it wouldn't be as easy to deal with. As it stands, this is a good distraction from her reality, and she is glad for it.

She likes to think, that if he can see her from somewhere, he would be proud, no matter what the voices in her head tell her. It is this belief that gets her through the nights when she is alone with her thoughts.

* * *

_Afterwards; Approximately 6 years and three months_

He is already halfway up the flight of stairs when he realises where he is, and what he's doing. He tries to turn back, but his feet freeze to the ground. Out of the murky window he can see the edge of the sign he should have noticed before.

The Powell Estate.

He quickly looks away, resolving to stare at his feet instead. They are clad in scuffy converse. They are the same as the ones he wore with her, and he likes feeling this connection as his advanced mind just won't allow him to _forget, _which would be so much easier. There is a dried piece of chewing gum three centimetres away from his left foot, and he thinks he was there when it was spat onto the pavement but the stairs look so similar everywhere and he can't be sure. This annoys him as he always boasts about his memory being infallible, and it is, just not with such details when she is concerned.

When he has finished thinking about this, he sees that the chewing gum has moved, and worries for about three tenths of a second before he figures out that his body has moved itself further up the stairs while he was distracted and he gives up, sprinting the last few steps with urgency. A quick blast from the sonic opens the door, and he is happy to find that the flat is unchanged. A layer of dust coats the surfaces, and he remembers having something to do with the fact that it has not been sold yet. He breathes in, but the air no longer smells of her. In a way he is glad; it would have been too much to bear otherwise.

And all at once the walls seem to move in towards him, and he just wants to get out, get out and never come back because he can see remnants of her all around him, things that she touched, things he remembers so clearly. A scratch on the side of the cupboard when he was trying to prove to her that he balance books on his head as well as any girl, and the book promptly fell from his head, causing the lamp to fall forward, much to Jackie's wrath.

His nimble fingers snatch a photograph from the mantelpiece, a single tear falling, followed by the corner of a trench coat disappearing back through the door and vanishing down the steps. A door slams.

When he is back outside, it is snowing. The past times he found himself somewhere at Christmas time, he hated it, but somehow today, as he looks at the snow, a part of him jumps in joy. He shrugs it off, escaping to the TARDIS again, making sure to portray his annoyance at the destination she just took him too.

* * *

_A/N This chapter could have been longer, but then I would have had to make it much longer, and it's really late, so you'll have to wait until next time for that one!_  
_You know, review if you want. (but if you review even though you don't really want to that's fine as well)_


	4. Chapter 4

_Afterwards; February 2007_

It's happening, day by day – the one concept she thought would never be possible more than half a year ago – recovery. Today she wakes up, and he isn't the first thing she thinks of, although very soon afterwards she is reminded by the painful emptiness in her hand. Ignoring it, mostly successfully, she pulls on her Torchwood uniform and leaves the house quickly, a small wave at Jackie as she runs past. She is early for work, as usual. She likes just loitering in her office, sinking in the comfy chair that Pete got for her when she first started as the head of department. It is easy to get distracted in her office, and that's what she likes about it. The walls are pinned with bright posters, put up by Jackie in another of her unsubtle attempts at getting back the Rose Tyler that existed before he happened. There are pictures as well, ones of her, and Mickey, and Shareen - from before she met him as well – she supposes that her mother thinks that if she acts like nothing ever happened, she will be okay again. She sighs a little. There is no Mickey, or Shareen, in this world – Pete's world, she calls it in her head. Though it is nothing compared to the loss of him, she finds herself missing those two, especially Mickey. It would have been nice to have someone who had also travelled with him stuck here in Pete's world as well, to keep her from driving herself insane. Her hand wanders over to that special photo, kept on her desk. It is face down, but she turns it upright again, letting her fingers trace the outline of spiky hair, and a pinstriped suit, looking off camera into the distance. It looks almost surreal, the expression in his eyes. She remembers taking the photo – it was on the planet that had the market filled with hats – or was it the one with the frozen oceans? She finds herself suddenly panicking – small details like this shouldn't be escaping her grasp. Her hands movements become frantic, scrabbling over the already faded photo as if it will help her. Finally it comes back to her. It was neither of the previous planets, it was Woman Wept. How could she have forgotten already? It had been one of those moments when he was staring at the horizon, his eyes unseeing and desperately sad, when she could tell he was thinking about his people. She had taken her camera out silently, and snapped the photo while he was still distracted. She doesn't think he saw her take it, or if he did he didn't say anything. _Now it is too late to ask him anyway,_ she thinks regretfully. Carefully, she lays the picture down again. She has learnt from experience it is impossible to work while she can see him right in front of her. It is better when she knows he is there, but can't see him.

And that day she doesn't turn the picture upright again for a session what she knows will just end up with her tears falling on the already stained paper. Her resolve even lasts two weeks this time – she only breaks when she sees a certain pair of heels in a shop window on the day Jackie takes her shopping – they are bright pink, and reminiscent of puffy dresses and helmets, clutching on for dear life as she rides on the back of a similarly coloured moped.

* * *

_Afterwards; 6 years and five months_

He is wandering around Portobello Market in 1960, a special request from Donna, with whom he has begun on/off travelling. It is never for more than one destination at a time, but the unlikely friendship is growing with each meeting. Donna understands what he is going through, as well as a human mind possibly could, and therefore she completely ignores it. He has never been treated that way before, but the strange and unaccustomed experience is good – it doesn't remind him of anything he has ever felt before, and he likes it.

A laughing couple walk past him, their hands intertwined and his heart hardens. The woman is blond, and although she is no way near as stunningly beautiful as the person he is thinking about, they are similar enough to make his eyes water. The woman leans into the man, and his mind paints him a picture of _her_ and another man, happy, laughing just like these two are, with a normal life_. She will forget all about you within a few years, _his head whispers to himself, and another voice tells him far darker possibilities of what is happening to her right now, and he shudders.

He hates the way he is right now, detests it with all his might. As Donna says, he is "hung up" on someone who he is never going to see again, and who would probably never have wanted him, the murderer, anyway. It isn't his entire fault though – he blames his species. Time Lords don't have simple flings – they don't fall in and out of love in such a fickle way as humans. It takes a while for their hearts to recognise the person they love, but once that has happened, the change is permanent. This longing, aching pain of being separated from her would only go away once either he or she died. Since he wouldn't know when that would happen to her, and didn't want to, it would have to be when _he_ died. And since he was so attached to this body, the last thing he had of _her,_ that wasn't likely to happen soon. He had tried, he really had, but the TARDIS wouldn't let him, or maybe he was just blaming her because once again he was just too cowardly for even this way out which could erase all of his problems as easily as breathing.

In one of his sudden, unexpected mood swings, he feels anger rush up in him like some gigantic, overpowering tidal wave, and he lashes out, knocking over the nearest stall. A chorus of angry cries follow this, but he can't stop now – he carries on, blindly thrashing around with clenched fists. He catches the man who was walking with the blonde before on the chin with his right hook, and he feels absurdly satisfactory.

Donna collects him from the police station a few hours later (bruised and bloody knuckles) with the psychic paper he slips her through the bars. She is furious with him, he can tell, but since she is too angry to say anything he stays quiet as well. He can't think of anything to say either, so he just enjoys the silence.

Donna stalks out of the TARDIS once they are back in her present time, still not uttering a word. He doesn't particularly care - he knows he will see her again, once she has calmed down enough. The TARDIS always takes him to places where he bumps into her, though she claims it is a coincidence.

Later he once again fingers a small bottle that has taken up permanent residence in the left corner of his right pocket. He hasn't opened it yet, and he knows it will be a while before he will, despite what runs through his mind every so often. The time will come, and until then he must do what he is best at – run.

* * *

_Before; two months prior _

They are sitting together, watching birds wheel over the rocks that make up the landscape of the current planet. They are worn out from the bout of running they have just endured, when he accidentally angered the locals. He led her to this secluded place, from which the view of the sky is simply amazing, even for him, who has seen countless skies pass before his eyes within the blink of an eye. She is gazing upwards, and just this once he breaks his carefully laid rules and pulls her closer to him. Even here he can taste the storm in the air, and he knows it is not far away now. She snuggles into his shoulder, and they sit there, not speaking, for a blissful few hours. Words are unspoken between them, but right now they feel like they both know what the other is thinking. There, with the stars blinking and the warm wind blowing, she falls asleep, and he is lulled by the rhythmic movement of her chest rising and falling. He commits this moment to memory, because no matter how much he fights it, he feels like this might be the last moment like this for a long time now.

* * *

_Afterwards; April 2007_

It is a normal day at work for her today - at least as normal as it gets, for her. Her TARDIS key is slung around her neck, as it almost always is, though lately she has been able to survive for longer and longer without it. She strides into her office, settling into her usual routine of shuffling through the files astray on her desk.

"Ms Tyler?" a frantic voice calls from outside, and she is up in a flash, following the Head of Extra-terrestrial Relations without a word – her boss's anxious face tells her all she needs to know about the urgency of whatever has happened.

To her surprise, she is led to the on-site mortuary, and she feels her heart harden in preparation, as it always does when she knows that someone has died. But nothing, nothing could have prepared her for this. Lying on the table is a figure in a pinstriped suit, and this is enough to make her collapse to the floor, eyes wide and glazed over.

"What?" she manages to choke out. Her throat tightens but she does nothing to try and stop it.

"We found him under our other base in Canary Wharf. The species is so far unclassified, but the cause of death is drowning. We decided to call upon you, with your extra knowledge and all," Tony, her second in command tells her, trying to crack a small smile.

The words go right past her. Only "death" sticks in her head. A small sob escapes from her mouth.

"Do – I mean, did you know him?" Tony says, gently this time. "Could you identify him?"

"I – " her voice sticks. She clambers up from her position on the floor, ignoring the proffered hand held out to her. She looks down upon the face that has haunted her dreams mercilessly for so many nights, still beautiful in all its stillness. Her hand brushes a stray lock of hair from his face. And it is then that she knows. She knows this isn't the him that she travelled with, the him that she _loved_ – but it was stupid of her not to think of the possibility that he didn't only exist in one universe. Throughout all of the time she had wasted with her pointless mourning, there had been a parallel version of him here, so close, and now it was too late. She feels her carefully rebuilt heart shatter once again, and this time nothing stops her from collapsing again, on top of his motionless body. It doesn't take much to pretend that he is the man she knew so well, that he is still alive and will wrap his arms around her like she is doing to him. Hands begin to pull her away, voices muttering in her ear, but all she hears and sees is him – breathing in the already faded smell that was just him, burying herself in the iciness of his embrace.

"No!" she screams, repeating it over and over again. "No! He can't be, he can't- Not again, please no!" her protests get louder and louder and she feels herself getting dragged away from him, the suit fading to a brown blur through the tears she hadn't realised were streaming down her face.

She is brought home to a comforting Jackie, who holds her and rocks her through her desperate screams until she has cried herself dry, her voice reduced to a faint whisper. It is like this she falls asleep, skin burning with salt. There is no colour in her dreams, just an endless replay of his ashen white face. Her subconscious brings back the light in his eyes only to quench it just as quickly, over and over again, each time stabbing her anew.

This is the worst night she has ever had, and the morning just brings the tears back afresh.

* * *

_A/N I know this was short compared to the other chapters, but bear with me, the next one will be longer. It is already planned out.  
Please leave me your thoughts and comments – everything welcome!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N Excuse for not updating – I was on holiday, without internet. _

* * *

_Afterwards; late April, 2007_

The funeral is strange. Not just because it is for a man that neither she, or all the people attending ever knew, but because she knows that it is the Doctor, or rather some of his ashes, lying lifeless in the coffin, now being lowered into the ground. She could have looked at him one more time, before he was burned, but she didn't want to – she knows that to see him again, as pale and unmoving as that disastrous time where she identified him would surely break her. She didn't know it was possible to be more broken than she was before, but the universe is large and impossible, full of unlimited resources to cause her more pain. She steps forward to throw in some flowers – a simple pink carnation, tied together with black string. According to Pete, they stand for remembrance. The carnation lands on the lid silently, alone – she had requested for no other flowers to be thrown – she can't think of the Doctor being the sort of man to want his burial place to be made pretty with decorations, no matter which universe he belonged to. Though if she could have her way, she would have the whole surroundings covered in gold, and all the riches imaginable. Even that would be less than she thinks he deserves.

"Rose," Pete whispers in her ear, pushing her forward slightly. For a moment she halts, confused, before recalling that she was supposed to say a few words before he was finally sealed off forever.

She walks closer to the edge of the grave, staring at it. Then she clears her throat, looking around at the few people standing around her – Jackie, Pete, and some select Torchwood officials – they hadn't been able to find anyone who was still alive that this Doctor had contacted.

"I never had the pleasure of knowing this man," she begins, and stops, uncertain of how to continue. "But he can't be too different from, well, himself," she stumbles and is thankful that the people present know about the other him, in the other universe. "In which case he was impossibly brave, kind, and just completely fantastic. I know for certain that he will be sorely missed by anyone and everyone lucky enough to meet him. The universe will be just that little bit emptier now that he is no longer here. But I also know that he will be remembered, not only by me, but by his countless friends, by all the lives he has saved-" she breaks off, feeling her throat stock and eyes start to water. Her chest is feeling painfully tight once more, as she realises that sometime, somewhere this will be happening to her Doctor, though she hopes that it wasn't so soon – he must have had a good few regenerations in him yet. Everyone is still waiting for her to continue, so she just bursts out "bless him," and wipes her eyes furiously, until spots dance in front of her vision.

The earth is shovelled into the grave now, and she watches the painted blue wood disappear until it is buried under a metre of dirt and dust and _time. _The grave isn't in a graveyard – he never specified his religion and she knows that if he even had one it wouldn't be one that originates on earth. Instead, his burial is in a small clearing in the large forest much further inland. Giant oak trees cast their shadow over it, and when the sun shines through the leaves the whole place is filled with an unnatural dappled light, seemingly unearthly. She knows it is nothing compared to places he would have seen, and almost definitely not where he would have wanted to have his final resting place if he could choose, but it is the best she could do.

* * *

_Afterwards; 6 years and three months (shortly after he has taken the picture from the now empty flat in the Powell Estate)_

He takes out the picture again, later, drinking in the face that is still painfully clear in his mind. He lets himself sink down on a park bench, aware that he may be somewhere near Donna, though he is not sure – this destination was the TARDIS' choice. He sits, frozen, eyes glazed over as his mind runs away.

And this is how Donna finds him hours afterward, picture still in hand. She looks at him, and understands straight away. Taking his hand, she leads him away from the park, where a police officer has already been giving him curious looks, and waves her arm in front of his face until he snaps out of his trance. He blinks and looks around, ascertaining where he is – somewhere that is definitely not with _her_.

"Donna?" he chokes out, and he looks so utterly vulnerable in that moment that Donna can't help wrapping her arms around his thin frame, feeling his ribs through his loose suit.

"Come with me," she says, and soon they are sitting in her kitchen, eating homemade lasagne which she forces him to shovel down in plate loads – she has been worrying about how thin he is for months now.

When they have finished eating the rather large meal, a sharp rap at the door signals her mother's arrival, and she ushers him out the back, telling him that from now on he is always welcome to come and eat at hers, but only on the days when her mother is out late – she can't imagine explaining the whole predicament to someone who would simply not understand.

It becomes a routine thing, following this first time – every one of their frequent meetings is conceded with some food. Though he remains worryingly thin, Donna is consoled through knowing that she is doing her part to keep him alive, even in the state he is in. Sometimes, when she tends to the many injuries he constantly seems to sustain, Donna feels so much older than the ancient Time Lord before her. And even more, she feels lucky, because she can feel the tension and sadness radiating off him even when he is not there with her, and her life seems so untroubled in comparison. She begins to see him as both a best friend and a son, and wonders what will happen to him when she is no longer there to save him from the insanity which is always there at the edges of his personality, held back only by the strength of his will.

* * *

_Afterwards; early May, 2007_

The wind whips her hair across her face as she stares out across the stormy waters of the sea down below her. She is standing on top of the cliffs again, near the spot she had nearly fallen off months ago. In her hand, she is holding a small jar. From a distance it looks small, and inconsequential, but this small pot contains the rest of this universe's Doctor's ashes, the ones that had not been buried in the forest. She prises off the lid, and in one quick moment scatters them into the strong breeze blowing. She does not know if it is just her imagination, but it seems as if the air itself is helping to take the ashes far away – she can see the dark grains as they are carried across the ocean, wild and free, just like the man himself. When the last of the ashes have been launched into the air, she feels like a dead weight has been lifted from her chest.

A part of her feels as if it was her Doctor who has just died, and surprisingly, it's a good thing. Although she still knows that the missing piece of her heart will not return, the rest of her is starting to learn how to cope without being complete. The ashes that are now voyaging across the water, already far, far away, took with them some of her grief, and that night when she once again stares wistfully at that only picture she has of him, she allows a small smile to cross her face as she simply remembers him – no heartbreak, and no separation, just purely him – his smell, his feel, him wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight.

She finds that celebrating the times he was present feels much better than mourning his absence, but she knows the latter was necessary to get to this stage.

* * *

_Present; Torchwood, that day_

It takes all he has and more to force his feet to move when the Rift closes, but somehow he manages it, and then he is there, standing right in front of that unrevealing blank wall. His mind feels strangely settled – _the calm before the storm- _and he raises his hand, his muscles responding slowly and sluggishly, and the movement which was supposed to be a wild punch turns into a simple touch; he spreads his hand out flat on the surface, and rests his head there as well. Is she doing the same right now? He imagines her on the other side, and pretends that the cool plaster is living, soft fingertips intertwined with his. His eyes are watery, but he blinks the tears away. What is the point in crying? What is the point of any emotion at all, now that she is not there to share things with him? He steels himself, slamming down the walls that she so carefully lifted, and shuts away the storm building inside him, trapping it. He can feel it smashing his head open from the inside and he welcomes the pain, turning back to face the other way. He walks back towards the TARDIS, each step breaking another piece of him into shards.

He sees a dimension hopper on the table to the left of him, now useless. In one quick movement he has picked it up and left five finger shaped dents in it, before crushing it completely, throwing it down again as it is, a mangled scrap of metal and wires. That is exactly how he is feeling right now, a mangled scrap of Time and Lord, but he tries not to let his emotions break through – with the way he is feeling right now he cannot guarantee the safety of anything within a 20 mile radius.

Why did it have to come to this, so soon? He knows he deserves no better than to be alone and lonely, the blood-soaked murderer he is, but the universe's way of punishing him is cruel. She will be hurting too, won't she? His mind latches on to this small insecurity, but he pushes it away. It his fault, that is for sure – he knows that people around him get hurt, and he should have removed himself from her life when he still had the chance, before he messed it up so badly. He is the only one to blame, and he knows it, knows it very well.

_No more companions_, he vows, as he slams shut the TARDIS door, causing tremors to rock the entire ship, never again – _they bring nothing but pain, and none of them deserve to be classified as the same thing as her, when she was brilliant beyond belief._

* * *

_Afterwards; 6 years and five months_

Today felt different. There was something off about it right from the beginning, but as none of his days felt as they used to he simply brushed it off. He was walking with Donna, half-listening to her prattle on about something or the other, and therefore not paying attention to his surroundings, something which did go against all his Time Lord instincts, but just felt so much freer. This was probably why he didn't see the shadows following them – too lithe and agile to be human, and slowly herding them into a less crowded part of Richmond.

"-and that was it! I never heard from him again!" Donna finished, her voice reaching an angry, ear-piercing screech. She looked at him, and frowned. "This again, is it? You just standing there and not listening to a word I say? Again?"

He was about to mumble out some apology of sorts, to avoid what he liked to call "death by Donna", when he finally realised exactly what was off about their situation. The sun was coming from the east, but five shadows were arranged pointing towards it. He lunged forward to pull Donna out of the way as he saw the shadows rising up from the ground to form into solid figures, but he was too late. He was always too late. The figures snapped a teleport onto both of their wrists and before he could think of anything, anything to help get them out of what he knew would follow, they were both gone from the earth's surface.

Afterwards, looking back, he should have known this would happen. He had managed to kid himself into thinking that he deserved a friend like Donna, to hold him and help him, feed him and spend most of her day shouting at him, but he was wrong. No one who had done what he had done, killed so many and then let the only one that ever mattered slip out of his grasp should even be allowed to talk to people like Donna. He had been selfish once again, and once again the same thing had come out of it. Rather than have Donna go insane from what she had endured on his behalf, he gently picked her up and carried her to the Med-bay in the TARDIS, using up some of his life energy to make sure she made a full recovery, without any scars. Scars on the outside, that was. Because of those sadistic bastards, she had gone through the torture instead of him. They had thought this would cause him more pain, and they were right. By the time he finally thought of a way to crack the cell's lock it was too late. Donna had been a mess when he got her.

All this because he had been so selfish. He should have been the one lying there, covered in blood. He couldn't let this happen ever again, and he knew there was only one way to make sure. Well, he thought, calculating his options, two ways. He could go back and change events to make sure Donna never met him, but that might cause a serious paradox and how was he to know that Donna would survive up to this point? No, he didn't want to do that. This left him with the only other solution – a memory wipe. He would go through her head and extract all memories of him, completely. Setting the scanners beside her bed on "deep cleanse", he typed a few commands on the keyboard and then sat back against the back of the chair and sighed deeply, breathing out through his nose. There was a faint prickle at the back of his eyes which might have been tears, but he would never know as he didn't let it get past that stage. When the screens finally reached 100% he picked her up again, and materialised inside her bedroom, putting her down on the bed before vanishing again. He didn't want to be there when her mother or grandfather found her. Especially her mother.

That was it then, he said to himself, earning a few curious looks from the other people on the train. He was alone again, properly alone, with no Donna to cover up the holes in his chest. They were aching so much now that he looked down, expecting to see two bloody wounds where his hearts should have been. His suit was impeccable, only pinstripes staring back at him. He clenched his fists and mashed his teeth together. He was alright, he was always alright. Except when he wasn't and for over 6 years now that had been the case. 6 years, 5 months, 14 hours, 23 minutes and 19 seconds, his inner clock told him and he shut it up angrily. For now he was just going to sit here, driving to and from London and Cardiff Central on this particular train until he got kicked off. Which wouldn't be too soon yet as he had "purchased" a 3 day ticket. His psychic paper really came in useful in situations like these.

It was strange, he thought, as he watched the lights of London fade into the distance for the third time that night, that although he had definitely reached what he would call the all-time low of his life, he just felt numb. The numbness had been creeping into his brain for a while now, but Donna had been keeping it at bay with the simple cheerfulness of her personality. He could feel a faint tingling in his eyes again, but it was almost unnoticeable. Perhaps it was best to forget about Donna too, like she had now forgotten about him.

He would be alright. He always was.

* * *

_A/N Thank you to all for reading, and please leave your comments by pressing that little button at the bottom of the page – it really gives me a lot of encouragement and I definitely need that, especially with this fic.  
Apologies for this short chapter, rest assured that the next one is longer.  
And for those of you reading Living in the Remnants, my other TenRose fic, I hope to update it later today or tomorrow. For those of you not reading it, come on, give it a try!_


End file.
